Sins of the Mother
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: The queen must make a tragic decision to save the one she loves most.


**A/N: **Another little introspective vignette that fits into my _Hamlet_ series. If you like Gertrude, this one's for you! Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Sins of the Mother<strong>

"**The shadows are as important as the light." ~ Charlotte Brontë, **_**Jane Eyre**_

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><p>My world is destroyed with four small words.<p>

There comes a time when just before the final fall, providence tricks one into believing that all will be well in the end. The fog will loft, the new day will dawn, and memories of the darkness will fade to grey as new memories of happier times come to prominence.

It is not so. It is never so – and I have been a fool to think it.

Mankind will always believe in the best, struggling to hold on to the hope of a better time, choosing to view harsh life as a test of trials, at whose end holds the treasure of peace and happiness. I believed it once. How could I not? A princess in a foreign land married to a man I could not love, fallen into an affair that stirred my heart's passion but clawed at my mind's frailties.

My life is one of sin and egregious faults, one for which I will pay dearly – not by God's will, but my own.

I am standing at the front of the great hall, one hand resting upon my throne, the other clutching the heavy goblet from which I am about to drink. My eyes are turned downwards, observing the red wine sifting back and forth innocently, oblivious of its more malicious purpose.

_Gertrude, do not drink!_

Those were my husband's words. They were harsh, loud, echoing from one side of the hall to the other, ringing out with caution and genuine fear.

Even now, when I know my fate is merely moments away, I cannot help but smile at the absurdity of human senses. I am not a warrior, but I have heard of men on the battlefield for whom time slows and they become more aware of the events circling them.

So it is for me.

The moment Claudius – my dear, wretched Claudius – spoke, the action ceased across the hall. I saw my son and Laertes turn, rapiers lowered, faces red and slick with sweat from their efforts, and observe me. As has happened many times throughout my life here in Elsinore, all eyes are on the queen.

I clutch the goblet. My hands begin to sweat and I fear I may drop it.

Claudius takes a step toward me. I can see him shaking, from head to toe; his body seemingly wants to charge forward and take the cup from me, but the great effort of his mind holds him in place.

He has destroyed me, for he would destroy my son. His plan was divulged the moment he spoke, the moment he strove to take the cup from me.

He will kill my son in this duel, I have no doubt. Claudius is no longer been the prince I once fell in love with; I know what he is capable of, what lengths he would go to protect himself and what he desires. A poisoned goblet is bears the taste of his shrewd mind, and the thought makes me ill.

I love my son more than my husband, and if it costs me my life to protect him, I will. It is the little I can do for him, after causing him great pain with my own reckless decisions and personal whims. It could be the greatest of apologies any mother – any horrible mother – has ever offered their progeny, but I also know this: I cannot continue to live if I know my son is dead at the hands of my own husband.

I glance across the hall to my son. My Hamlet. He knows not of Claudius' plan; no doubt he expects some villainy, but in what form? He has already been whipped into the frenzy of sportsmanship; I know he cannot concentrate fully when there is a match to be one. He will not know from which side the knife will fall.

Providence has already saved him once this morning, when he refused Claudius' offer of drink. I cannot allow chance to play so freely once more.

I raise the cup.

"I will, my lord," I say, my eyes finding Claudius' gaze; the piercing blue eyes strike my heart, but I stand firm. There was once a time when his gaze could bend me to his will, when I would do anything for him; no more. If he wishes to stop me, he must wrestle the cup from my hands himself – and expose his plan to Hamlet.

I am about to set the goblet to my lips when I pause. For the briefest of moments, it seems as though Claudius will spring at me, all pretences and plans torn asunder by the deep, primal desire to save my life from the poison he himself has planted. But then the moment passes and he is still once more.

_Oh, my Claudius – how did it ever come to this?_

We had once shared so much. How I could ever come to regret the joys he once gave me in my youth? He showed me how to appreciate Denmark; he was the reason I had eventually come to love this impassive country of sea and stone and sand, seeing past the gritty outside to the harsh, majestic beauty it did possess. I was happy once. We have shared the blood and the sweat of royalty, and now it is plunging towards and end.

"I pray you," I murmur, just loud enough for Claudius to hear, "pardon me."

I drink.

Claudius pales, but he stays where he is.

The wine tastes untainted; it would have been impossible to know its contents mark the drinker for death. I cannot drink all of it – something within me forces me to stop. Perhaps it is years of royal training; my bearing will not allow me to drink the full goblet. I finish, feeling as strong as I did before I drank. There are no telltale signs of poison; I do not shake and my veins do not burn. I wonder whether it was all a ruse, or if I have misread my husband.

I smile graciously and walk towards my son, passing Claudius. He is murmuring under his breath, his face still pale. Hamlet raises a hand as I approach, gesturing to the cup I still carry.

"I dare not drink yet, madam," he says, his eyes reaching mine. "By and by."

He does not voice concern, but I can see it within his face. I briefly touch his arm, my eyes still locked with his, desperately trying to tell him what I know. I have done this for him; if the cup is truly poisoned, I will fall – and my life will save his.

"Come," I say, now desperate to lead him as far away from his would-be murderer, "let me wipe thy face."

Hamlet shakes his head, eyes quickly scouting the area. Behind us, Laertes walks to the king, muttering hurried words that I cannot hear. I see Hamlet staring intently at them over my shoulder; I turn my head, but Hamlet smiles briefly at me and bows, capturing my attention once more. He raises his rapier, returning to the centre of the playing space. I curse to myself and step backwards, the cup cold and slick in my grasp from sweat. I cannot know if Hamlet has correctly perceived my actions; he has always been too great of an actor, excellent at hiding his thoughts, only letting those see what he wished them to see.

"Come, for the third, Laertes," he says, calling to the red-faced boy who stands beside the king. "You but dally; I pray you, pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me."

Laertes turns at this challenge, almost spitting his words with impatience and rage. "Say you so? Come on!"

He flies into the playing space, his rapier clashing with Hamlet's. The clash of steel echoes around the great hall, puncturing the queasiness I begin to feel as I think about the circumstances that have led these two men to this moment.

I have long felt much sorrow for dear Laertes; he has always been a proper man, with good values and much honour. To see him in such a way pains me almost as much as the death of his dear sister.

Those two children, much like my son, lost within themselves because of the consequences of my own actions.

The court is drawn to the duel, holding its breath, waiting for the results. Osric waits, tense and out of breath, at the sidelines, his eyes scanning back and forth as the fight continues on.

A servant arrives at my side and takes the cup from my hands. I thank him and turn to the fight in time to see Laertes fly at my son; I lose sight of the rapiers in the ensuing scuffle – their actions are too fast for my sight – and my stomach turns with fear.

I must concentrate on this duel. If I have drunk poison, it will do its deed with or without my worry. If I have not, I must keep my eyes open for further potential for treachery.

"Nothing, neither way," Osric calls, wiping his sweating brow.

The court murmurs, a flurry of unintelligible words.

Hamlet smiles, high with his success, his proof that he is as fine a swordsman as one of Denmark's best. Laertes lays crouched on the stone floor beside his rapier, anger burning in his eyes, ready to spring at my son's turned back.

My hands tremble. I want to shout a cry of warning, but my throat will not release it.

Laertes' voice bellows across the hall, twisted and grunting like the voice of a demon from hell itself.

"Have at you now!"

I watch, paralyzed with fear, as Laertes springs across the floor, striking Hamlet on the back of his shoulder. Bright blood seeps forth, staining his tunic as he turns around, slashing back at Laertes. I blink. Their action is far too quick for my eyes to follow.

I press a hand to my chest and I can feel my heart pounding.

I feel ill – ill to watch two good men go to war in the name of revenge.

Claudius' voice rings out near me, but I cannot make out his words. There is shouting all around me, but my mind refuses to understand it. The world blurs before my eyes and it becomes a splash of colour, of which I see mostly red.

My feet no longer exist; I tumble to the ground, gasping for breath, sweat slick across my skin. I can hear the sound of my own breathing; little else is comprehensible for me.

"Look to the queen there, ho!"

_Breathe,_ I tell myself. _Breathe. _

I want to see my son.

Claudius' face swims before my eyes, concern etched in his expression. I do not know why I can't trust that look. It seems false.

He touches my face, wiping away the tears that now spill freely from my eyes.

With the last inch of strength I have remaining in my arm, I push his hand away, turning my face sideways. I do not want to see him. I am repulsed to see him.

I lay curled on the floor like a child as the fire within me takes hold, burning me from the inside. I can count the flagstones on the floor; they appear clear to my eyes. I do not know why, but I take comfort in them.

One… two… three…

Voices.

"They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?"

Four… five… six… can they not see me? Am I already flying away from this world and traversing to the next? Seven! Eight!

"I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery."

Nine! That voice belongs to Laertes. Treachery? Which treachery? His?

I vomit and cough, the flagstones sliding in and out of focus. I see a pair of boots on the next flagstone and immediately recognise them. They belong to my son. He is still standing.

He is still alive.

"How does the queen?"

"She swounds to see them bleed."

It is Claudius who speaks, Claudius who now holds me in his arms. Devil Claudius, good Claudius, my Claudius, my love, my hate, the man for whom my life was consumed. Claudius. The prince who was forbidden to me, but whom I took despite all things. The man from whom I should have stayed away.

My fault. My sin. My fate.

Damn Claudius. His pain will be my pain.

With the little strength I have left, I raise my head, trying to clear my eyes. I see my son's face and the horror in his eyes. He rushes to my side, uncertain of what to do – I gesture vehemently at Claudius, but he will not release me from his grip.

"No, no," I say through clenched teeth. It takes great effort to speak, great effort to breathe. The pain… no. The pain cannot exist. I must speak – I must! "The drink, the drink – Oh my dear Hamlet…" I reach out and seize his hand with my own, pulling him close, despite Claudius proximity. "The drink," I whisper. "The drink! I am poison'd."

The last word does not sound like word to my ears and I collapse in Claudius' arms, my message finally delivered. Before my blurring eyes, I see Hamlet turn, eyes wide with rage, towards my husband and I know that his live is in his hands now.

I will not live to see the outcome.

My body sinks downwards. I cannot feel my feet, but I can sense Claudius' hands on my arms where he holds me. I wish to spit my final thought at him, but I do not have the strength to speak.

_Hamlet will make a greater king than you ever will, my love._

Then, I submit to the darkness, ready to journey to God's judgement for my deeds, knowing my last action has done perhaps a little good in this world of blood and vengeance.

_fin_


End file.
